


Shadows of Our Former Selves

by Pluppelina



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, Reunion, Seb is in bad shape, mentioned drug use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-30
Updated: 2015-04-30
Packaged: 2018-03-26 11:33:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3849400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pluppelina/pseuds/Pluppelina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Years after Reichenbach, Jim returns. It doesn't magically set things right. Originally prompted on Tumblr.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shadows of Our Former Selves

The first time Sebastian sees him, he thinks that it’s a hallucination. He bought whiskey instead of dinner with his last few quid, so it even makes sense, doesn’t even make him think he’s gone mad. As though going mad was ever an option; as though he wouldn’t have instantly jumped on that train if he could’ve. It seems far preferable to reality, even though hallucination Jim doesn’t look the way he used to. He looks older. He looks dirtier. He looks weary. Sebastian never saw him weary much, but then again, the flat Sebastian’s currently squatting in has seen better days. Jim never did like the dirt, especially not when he came walking right into it, like he does now; in through the door, just as though he’s still alive. The light coming in through the window is enough to make it painfully clear that Sebastian has seen better days, but he’s too drunk to mind. It’s like the first time they ever lay eyes on each other, in that sense. The memory brings a smile to Sebastian’s face, but Jim stays serious.

“You didn’t stay at Conduit Street,” he observes, eyes focused on Sebastian. The mild accusation in his voice brings something to the pit of Sebastian’s stomach. _Daddy’s back,_ something in the far back of his mind supplies. He shivers, shakes his head.

“Didn’t have the money,” he slurs, resting his head against the wall for stability. It doesn’t help to make Jim any less blurry, but at least some of him seems to relax. It’s strange, seeing Jim in motion again, seeing his body language after so long. He seems so real. Slowly, the possibility seeps into Sebastian’s mind the way rain seeps through his ceiling sometimes, spreading through his body like damp. Jim… real? Jim alive?

“I did leave you with more than enough,” Jim muses, accusation gone, self-flattery back. It rings so true, and Sebastian can’t help but wonder if he’d even be capable of such a life-like rendering of the man after so long. There is so much he’s forgotten in the years that have passed, so much he hadn’t even realised was gone – like the way Jim walks forward in a swinging motion, hips first, when he isn’t sure how he’s going to approach a situation. Like the way he stays at a safe distance, so he’ll have time to make a move in case the person he’s approaching decides to attack. For some reason, getting a perspective on what he’s lost hurts almost as much as losing it did in the first place.

“You’re a fucking cunt,” Sebastian says, and it comes out more of a slur than the sharp snap he intended for it to be. He’s too drunk to get his mouth to comply properly, and it’s too cold for him to get up off his dirty mattress and pursue something along a more physical line. If the alcohol hadn’t helped take the edge off, he beat Jim black and blue. Now, there’s only the ghost of that urge, lingering in his bones. He spits on the floor, inches from Jim’s feet. He was never supposed to leave, was never supposed to leave Sebastian on purpose, and yet he did.

Yet, he has. And he doesn’t even have the decency to look affected.

“Come on, Tiger, let’s go home,” is all he says, but all Sebastian does is watch as he leaves. He’s not in a mind-set to take orders and he isn’t sure where he’s supposed to follow him, anyway; back to Conduit Street, or back to the grave.

*

Two weeks later, he is home again. It’s not how he imagined being back would be. The furniture is new and it’s all in the wrong place. The flat even smells wrong. It’s like someone used the lay-out of the place they used to live and created a spread in a magazine from it, dropped him in the middle, and expected him to be fine. He can’t help feeling on edge, all the time, hairs on the back of his neck standing up.

Jim doesn’t improve the situation. He truly is fine, as far as Sebastian can tell. He doesn’t talk about what happened, hasn’t offered any explanation or apology. Not that he would. He isn’t that kind of man. So Sebastian is doing what he’s best at, simply trying to adapt to his surroundings, despite the fact that he feels like Jim might disappear again at any moment. As though he’s a ghost, and they’re living in the burnt-out shell of their previous home, sharing a bed that’s no longer theirs. When there isn’t work to keep his mind off of it, he lies awake in that new bed at night, anger churning in his stomach. If Jim was alive this whole time, why did he let Sebastian believe he was gone? Why did he let Sebastian slip?

Sometimes, Sebastian is only angry at himself. He should’ve known better than to rely that heavily on anyone, let alone someone with the potential to fuck him over so completely. So he keeps to himself, he works, and he lets off steam the best he knows how – working the treadmill, getting into bar fights, fucking women.

It’s on one of those nights, weeks later, that he comes home early. He’d gone to a club instead of a pub and an over-achieving bouncer had spotted Sebastian and the trouble he was sure to bring later in the evening. He’d been tossed out on his ass, pro-actively, only for the guard to disappear back into the club before Sebastian had a chance to kick his ass for it. So Sebastian, too tipsy to want to start over his night, had gone home, planning to sleep. It’s a good plan, in theory; but a bad one in practice, as he comes home to find Jim still awake, sitting in their bed with his laptop. Sebastian freezes in the door, and Jim looks up. Their eyes meet. For the first time, it seems to Sebastian as though perhaps ignoring each other and his emotions isn’t going to be a long-term solution. The anger that’s been building inside of him seems to leak out, a charge and a tension growing between them. There was a time when that kind of tension would be laced with anticipation. Not this time, though.

“Are you still angry with me, darling?” Jim asks, taking his reading glasses off and putting them on the night table. He looks naked without them. Sebastian’s fist opens and closes at his side, helplessly.

“Yes,” he admits, finally. He’s still leaning on the door frame. Jim sighs.

“I did it for you, you know,” he replies, head tilted to the side. “I did it to keep you safe.”

Sebastian almost starts to laugh. He wouldn’t have been safe, with Jim around. He wouldn’t have been fucking safe if he could’ve stayed in their luxury apartment, with a living, breathing body next to him at night instead of a dreamt-up corpse, wouldn’t have been safe with plain adrenalin in his veins instead of heroin. It’s the most ridiculous thing he’s ever heard, and he turns in the door, heading back out. Coming home early was a bad idea.

Before he’s reached the hallway, Jim has caught up with him. As the man puts a hand on his shoulder to turn him around, Sebastian doesn’t resist. He’s just so fucking sick of resisting now, that he leans into it, swings with it, and crashes his fist into the side of Jim’s face. Back in the day, maybe one of them would’ve laughed it off. None of them is laughing now, but Jim still comes back and still comes closer, as if he’s asking for more. Again, Sebastian gives in, going for Jim’s ribs with his left hand as he backs away. When Jim still follows, Sebastian lashes out again and again, delivering kicks and punches until his back hits the steel door of their flat and there’s nowhere to run anymore, and no reason to fight. His chest is heaving as he meets Jim’s eye.

“It’s all right now, darling,” Jim murmurs, reaching out to put a hand on the back of Sebastian’s neck, like he always does when he wants Sebastian to bend for a kiss. “Daddy’s home. You can relax, now.”

Sebastian isn’t sure he believes it. He isn’t sure that Jim will stay, or that having Jim back is any reason to relax, but he wants to believe it so badly that when Jim leans in to claim a kiss, Sebastian lets him. They end up snogging on the sofa, hands groping everywhere, and Sebastian had forgotten the delicious little sounds Jim always makes, in the back of his throat, as though it’s a struggle not to give in and die. He’d forgotten how that always makes him push harder, and the ease with each Jim’s legs would spread to accommodate him between them. He’d forgotten that it is all different when there are feelings involved, and fuck it, there are still feelings. There are still feelings, his head is spinning, and he doesn’t want to give in to it like that. Not with a bang, but with a whimper.

When he gets up, they’re both panting, and the wanton look on Jim’s face tell him that they both want more. And yet.

“I need to get out,” he says, turning before Jim’s answered, and this time he’s allowed to leave.

When he comes back later, drunk as per usual, he opts for the sofa. It’s always the safer bet. He still wakes up underneath a blanket, with a peace offering of pain killers and orange juice on the coffee table in front of him. He considers last night as he sits. Jim did it to keep him safe. Jim had a reason to go.


End file.
